


Ignition

by Salmon_Pink



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salmon_Pink/pseuds/Salmon_Pink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People fool around in the backseat of cars, Connor's aware of that. But they're in the front seat and this is the Redbird and that's <i>Robin</i> on his lap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ignition

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Arrow Family Meme](http://dcu-memes.livejournal.com/12053.html), [prompt](http://dcu-memes.livejournal.com/12053.html?thread=609045#t609045) "Connor/Tim, awkward, desperate, fumbling teenage make-out session in the Redbird". Because the prompt specified this fic take place in the Redbird, that would make Tim, by my reckoning, around 15 in canon. But his age isn't actually mentioned here, so you're welcome to imagine him any age you're comfortable with.

Connor doesn’t think he’s quite as naïve as people (Eddie) like to believe. Sure, there are certain aspects of the way the world works that he’s not especially knowledgeable about, but it’s not like he’s _helpless_.

Except right now, helpless is exactly how he feels.

Connor doesn’t have a lot of experience with kissing, but the way Tim’s mouth moves over his own is insistent, focused. Just the way Robin _should_ kiss, although Connor’s never really thought about it before.

He has a feeling he’s not going to be able to _stop_ thinking about it for a long time.

Tim’s mouth is soft, but his kisses are hard, pushing the back of Connor’s head against the seat. The knot of his mask is a vaguely uncomfortable ball of pressure on the back of his skull, but Connor doesn’t really know what to do about it, because if he tries to untie it, that would mean moving his hands from Tim’s shoulders, and he’s honestly not sure if he’s capable of that right now.

As if on cue, Connor’s fingers dig in to the meat of Tim’s shoulders, moving like they have a mind of their own. Connor’s not used to his hands disobeying him, but he can’t even bring himself to care, because Tim gasps into his mouth, and that just makes Connor’s fingers flex harder.

He can just about hear Tim’s breathing over the embarrassingly loud sound of his own ragged breath and the slick, wet noises of their tongues moving over each other. Tim’s panting, short, sharp little inhalations, and the fighter’s instinct in Connor’s mind registers that there’s just the slightest hint of _pain_ to Tim’s breath. 

He tries to pull back, because Tim isn’t supposed to be hurting, Tim’s supposed to be feeling as good as Connor does. But he can’t actually go back any further, because he’s already pressed so far back into the seat he’s pretty sure he’s going to leave a permanent indentation. He turns his head slightly, and Tim’s lips smear wetly across his cheek, and Connor’s head is spinning and oxygen feels like a foreign concept at it invades his mouth, but he can still manage to see the problem.

Tim’s cape is caught, folded up and trapped in the space between the back of his thighs and calves where he’s kneeling over Connor’s lap. It’s pulling against his throat, but apparently Tim doesn’t notice or just doesn’t care, and that makes a wave of something dark and new ripple through Connor’s chest, something _hungry_. 

Tim’s as caught up in this as Connor is, which is just amazing, better than amazing, because Connor feels like he’s losing his _mind_ with how good it feels and it’s nice to know he has company on the path to insanity.

Of course, this _isn’t_ insanity, people have been telling him that since he left the monastery, telling him aggressively. This is passion, this is _sex_ , although Connor’s pretty sure none of those people ever had Robin straddling their thighs and, oh, pressing his tongue inside the shell of Connor’s ear. 

Connor shivers, feeling warmth pooling down the side of his neck as he heats up from within, and manages to release his death grip on Tim’s shoulders long enough to reach down and _yank_ the cape away from the back of Tim’s knees.

Tim makes a soft, surprised noise into Connor’s ear, and he shudders again, feels like it’s vibrating in his mind, turning everything glossy and red-hued. And somehow his hands are moving, roaming, freed now from their lock on Tim’s shoulders as they explore the curve of his waist. Tim squirms slightly against him, pressing against the touch, and when Connor’s hand slips, ghosts lower over the swell of Tim’s ass, Tim growls against his neck.

Connor didn’t think it was possible for his protective jock to be any more uncomfortable. He was apparently mistaken.

He doesn’t really know if that’s a _good_ noise or a warning to stop, only knows that it makes his hips buck up of their own accord. Trying to read Tim’s reactions isn’t helping, because he keeps getting lost in all the _sounds_ Tim makes, so he’s just relying on instinct when he drops both hands to Tim’s ass and squeezes _hard_.

Tim throws his head back, top of his head brushing the Redbird’s ceiling, a high, reedy cry escaping him that seems to echo around the car’s interior. It burns Connor’s ears, breath catching in his chest, and his hands squeeze again, again, putting enough strength into it that he must be _bruising_ Tim. But Tim only whines for it, hips rolling, bucking up into the air between their stomachs before pushing back into Connor’s grasp. 

He should be doing more than this, should be doing _better_ than this, but Connor doesn’t really know how. Not when Tim’s cries are beginning to mix into one long, hitching moan, not when his face is flushed almost as red as his tunic. 

One of Tim’s hands pushes into Connor’s hair, tugs at it, sweet pressure above Connor’s temple that pulls in rhythm to the movement of Tim’s hips. The other locks around the headrest of Connor’s seat, muscles in his arms standing out taut and braced, and Tim makes a sound that could maybe, just maybe be Connor’s name, before he gasps and stills so suddenly that Connor’s heart almost forgets to beat. But then the second passes, and Tim’s in motion again, hips shoving forward, back arching, hand pulling at Connor’s hair as he shudders and moans and (oh _Tim_ ) comes in his tights.

Connor watches through dazed eyes as Tim shivers his way through orgasm, his mouth slack, lips wet and swollen.

There’s something prickling at the back of his eyelids; not tears but something that feels more like sparks, like showers of stars. It’s entirely possible he’s gulping down oxygen so fast that he’s actually hurting himself, but he can’t seem to help the way it never feels like enough, like a drowning man getting his first real taste of air.

“Tim,” he hisses, and he doesn’t even recognise his own voice, but Tim gasps like he’s been scalded and shoves their mouths together hard enough to click teeth. His fingers move jerkily at Connor’s waist, pulling material up, shoving it down, and Connor can’t even raise his hips properly to help because Tim’s weight and the damn seatbelt are in the way.

But somehow Tim’s hands find their way, press inside his costume, pushing their way into his jock. And then there are fingers wrapped around him, and Connor shouts, nonsensical jumble of letters, and his hands instinctively squeeze at Tim’s ass again. For a moment, Tim’s grip on him is almost _painful_ , and then it’s perfect, and Connor never knew it could like this, somebody else’s hand on him, moving so intimately.

It feels like he’s being pulled apart in the best kind of way, everything else being stripped away until there’s just this intense, overwhelming need. He tries to push up into Tim’s grip, but he can’t get leverage. But Tim seems to understand anyway, stroking hard and fast, and his gauntlets feel almost unreal against Connor’s flesh, cool and slick and smooth. He wants Tim’s hand, wants Tim’s calluses, Tim’s sweat, Tim’s heat, but he knows it would be too much, knows he’d just fall apart for it.

Except he _is_ falling apart for it, can hear himself groaning like a wounded animal. Tim’s forehead leans against his own, so close that Tim’s face is just a blur, flushed skin and the darker gash of his parted lips. Sharing breath between them, almost like he can taste Tim even though they’re no longer kissing. 

He can _feel_ Tim’s eyes on him, watching, studying him, and he wants to stare back, wants to let Tim see, show Tim how much this is effecting him. Show him how lost he is to this, control or anything like it completely beyond him as he grunts for every sensation. But he can’t, can’t keep his eyes open, and Tim’s gaze on him still feels like a physical touch, like a caress, even with his world turning red behind his eyelids.

He’s almost not expecting his orgasm; it takes him so suddenly and so fiercely that he aches with it, body trying to double-over but not having the room to do more than lean into Tim, fingers digging into Tim’s flesh, low and near-feral noise ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. Painting the creased material of his costume and the knuckles of Tim’s gauntlets with his release as everything flashes hot, then hotter, and it’s the kind of out-of-body experience that his meditation never truly prepared him for.

When his head stops swimming and he can feel sensation begin to creep back into his fingers, Connor forces his eyes open again, and hears himself let out a soft, hungry noise. Tim is slowly and methodically licking his fingers clean, tongue a slice of vivid pink against the dark gauntlets, leaving them spit-slick and shiny.

Tim’s eyes are trained on Connor’s face, his gaze sharp and watchful.

“I’m starting to think you’re trying to _break_ me,” Connor husks out, and Tim’s eyes take on that brightness that Connor reads as a smirk.

“Wouldn’t want that,” Tim replies and, oh yes, that is definitely a smirk dancing in his eyes.

Connor offers a shaky laugh that sounds more like a sigh, and somehow his hand is hovering between them, brushing hair from Tim’s forehead. With everything they’ve just done, the gesture seems almost embarrassingly personal, but Tim only tilts his head to allow Connor’s touch.

“That was -” Connor begins, but he gets distracted by tracing a sheen of sweat on Tim’s brow with his thumb.

“Eye-opening?” Tim offers carefully.

“I was going to say amazing,” Connor says, the back of his knuckles now brushing Tim’s cheekbone. “But, yes, that too.”

He’s beginning to understand the difference between Robin’s smiles and Tim’s. That’s a Tim smile, he’s sure of it, because there’s this hint of shyness to it, and Tim drops his head slightly to press his cheek to the bowl of Connor’s palm.

“You’ll be able to visit Gotham again?” Tim asks quietly, voice totally neutral in a way that’s probably just as much Tim as Robin.

“Yes,” Connor promises.

“Soon?” Tim presses his lips to the heel of Connor’s palm.

“ _Definitely_.”

Oh yes, that smile is all _Tim_.


End file.
